Birthday
by waterbird
Summary: I don't celebrate my birthday,' Draco said through gritted teeth, trying to ignore Potter's devious smile.


**Author Notes:** Written as a birthday gift for janicechess, whose friendship and encouragement mean the world to me. And with many thanks to melusinahp for the beta!

**Birthday**

'Come on, Malfoy.'

Draco waited until his knight had finished pummelling the opposing rook before he looked up from the chessboard. Potter was in the doorway watching him.

'If you can't see that I'm busy, Potter, it's obviously time to clean your glasses.'

'Busy? Playing chess all day — alone?'

Draco turned back to the board and reached for the knight again. He would not give Potter any indication that he might be pleased to see him. 'I like being alone.'

'Nobody likes being alone,' Potter said, crossing the room and snatching the piece out from under Draco's nose, 'on their birthday.'

Draco felt his stomach do a somersault. He did not want to think about it. The day had become just another reminder of all the things he should have done differently; it was Dumbledore dying and he himself being marked and the whole world shifting out of control. Voldemort had nearly won. He would have if it hadn't been for Potter.

And if it hadn't been for Potter . . . well, Draco didn't like thinking about where he'd be now.

He also didn't like thinking about the fact that for the past five months, Potter had been acting as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about living in the big empty Black house with only a deranged house-elf and a former Death Eater for company. Within six months of the war ending, the Order had won enough leverage within the new Ministry that they no longer needed Grimmauld Place as their headquarters. They had rather unceremoniously cleared out and gotten on with the task of rebuilding the wizarding world. Draco had expected Potter to tell him to leave too, but that order never came.

Angry now, he made to grab the chess piece back, but Potter was too quick. It disappeared into his robes.

'I don't celebrate my birthday,' Draco said through gritted teeth, trying to ignore Potter's devious smile.

Potter had his wand out now and was banishing all the chess pieces to their box. It was infuriating, the way he could waltz into a room, into Draco's private business, and start giving orders. It had been one thing during the war, when everything had depended upon Potter's powers and his ability to control things, but had he now no sense of propriety? It was, Draco was loathe to admit, more than a little distracting.

'We'll see about that,' Potter said.

'Don't tell me. You're throwing me a surprise party with all my closest friends and family.'

The truth was, Potter had somehow become the closest and only thing to 'friends and family' that Draco had. Not that they had ever discussed it. And that certainly was not to imply that they had achieved the easy, familiar sort of comfort with each other that Draco had always envied in PotterÕs friendship with Weasley and Granger. Draco didn't kid himself for a moment that he was any sort of adequate replacement for the friends Potter had lost.

In fact, Potter mostly left Draco to himself, and often days would pass when they wouldn't see each other at all. Draco appreciated the peace. Even so, he found himself looking forward to Potter's return from wherever he had disappeared to. There was something appealing about sharing a space with someone who didn't — at least not anymore — want you dead or in extreme pain. And it was whenever Potter vanished for a few days that Draco became uncomfortably aware of how accustomed he had grown to this odd living arrangement. He secretly liked finding a pot of hot tea waiting for him in the morning, his favourite mug laid at his place on the table next to a basket of warm toast and three different pots of jam, each with its own spoon. There was, after all, nothing more disgusting than finding smears of strawberry or apricot jam in the orange marmalade — Draco had made his position on the matter quite clear to Potter.

Draco liked furtively watching as Potter picked up the Daily Prophet, skimmed the front page and then turned straight away to the dog-eared pages of interest that Draco had marked. And he liked sleeping with his bedroom door half-open so that he could hear when Potter started talking in his sleep. Draco would cross the hall to shake him out of his bad dreams — just enough so that Potter would roll over and fall back asleep and not wake again until morning. Draco liked listening, sometimes, to Potter breathing. Just to be sure.

So, to himself, Draco admitted that Potter had become a friend. Sort of. And it was nice to know he had a friend (if that's what Potter was) who didn't rub his face in his ugly past or in the fact that he otherwise had no one. And the reason Potter didn't rub his face in these things was also refreshing. He simply had no desire to do so; it was not because he was scared of him. That _had_ always been a bit of a barrier with Crabbe and Goyle, Draco lamented.

He knew he sounded bitter, asking about his non-existent surprise party, but he was still relieved that Potter had the decency not to ask, 'What friends and family?'

Instead, Potter looked at him, clearly exasperated, and said, after a moment, 'Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Draco.'

It wasn't what Draco had been expecting, and the anger he had felt at being so rudely intruded upon bubbled over. He stood up and drew his wand. 'Fuck you, Potter.'

Potter didn't seem the least bit worried about Draco waving his wand in his face. He grabbed Draco's wrist and held it steady. Then he moved closer.

'Is that your birthday wish?' he asked, stepping even closer. 'Because —' His voice was a mere whisper against Draco's face. '— it could be arranged.'

Draco found he couldn't speak. His tongue was a big, dead slug in his dry mouth.

'Or,' Potter continued, releasing Draco's arm, 'you could do as I ask. Come on.'

He was already in the hall, looking at him expectantly, by the time Draco had composed himself and put his wand away.

'Where are we going?' he asked finally.

The only answer Potter would give was, 'You'll see,' as he took hold of Draco's arm and Apparated them out of Grimmauld Place.

Draco's first thought after they had touched ground again was that he really needed to get out of London more often. They were in a large garden filled with thousands of brilliantly coloured flowers and more greenery than Draco had laid eyes on in . . . well, he didn't know anymore how long. On their right stood a trickling fountain and, from it, a narrow winding stream curved towards a small gazebo in the back. The stream ended in a small pool full of striped and spotted and luminescent little magical fish that jumped into the air and sparkled under the sunlight before splashing back down into the water.

Draco looked across the other side of the garden and saw a small stone cottage. Potter took a few steps towards it. When he realised Draco wasn't following, he turned around and waved him on. Draco didn't think he'd ever seen him smile so . . . honestly. 'Come on,' Potter said, for the third time that day, and he reached over and took Draco's hand, pulling him along the path to the house.

They entered through a large, sun-drenched conservatory and then into a sparsely furnished but cosy sitting room. None of it was familiar to Draco, and he wondered if he wasn't locked in some surreal dream. And then his eyes fell upon a framed photograph on the mantle. Someone was waving at him from inside it. Draco took a step closer. The young woman smiled and blew him a kiss.

'Mother?' he whispered. His eyes darted to the next picture. There he was: five years old and climbing onto his first broomstick, his father protectively holding on to the back of it while Draco struggled to find his balance.

There were more pictures, and as Draco looked around he noticed other things: the desk in the corner was his from the manor. And the clock on the bookshelf had been his grandfather's.

He turned around, looking for Potter, but he was gone.

He found him outside in the gazebo, setting a small table. He smiled that same smile again when he saw Draco approaching.

But Draco was unnerved. 'What is this place, Potter? he asked and caught the note of accusation in his own voice too late. Potter's smile faltered. 'And what is _that_?' Draco said, pointing at the table.

Potter looked down and shrugged. 'It's your birthday cake. Chocolate's OK, isn't it?'

'Chocolate?' Draco repeated. 'You say that as if it explains everything! Where did it come from? Where did any of this come from?' He was starting to feel very hot in the sunlight and very uncomfortable with Potter looking at him like that.

'Right,' Potter said at last. 'OK. The cake — I made it. Mrs Weasley left some old cookery books behind at Grimmauld Place and . . . well, I was just looking through one the other day, and the recipe looked nice and not too difficult — 'cause, you know, I never did that weekend cookery course at Hogwarts — so I thought I'd give it a—'

'OK, Potter. I understand the bit about the cake now. Lovely. Thank you. I'm sure it's just perfect. But—' Draco flailed his arms around the garden and in the direction of the house. 'What is this? And what is my stuff doing here?'

Potter nodded slowly and then sat down on the gazebo steps, leaning forward with his hands folded together between his knees. 'This,' he said quietly, looking around at the garden and the pond and the house, 'is Godric's Hollow. My parents' place. . . . I lived here with them until . . .' He turned his empty palms upward and shrugged again.

Draco just stared at him. _Godric's Hollow?_ He hadn't thought anything remained of the place.

'I've been coming here the last few months,' Potter continued. 'I was planning to fix it up so I could sell it. I want to get rid of Grimmauld Place too. . . . There are just too many bad memories there. But this place . . . it started to grow on me. I don't have any real memories of being here with my parents — but I know we were happy. I know it was good, even though we were in hiding and they were probably worried sick the entire time, wondering if we were all going to make it and what would happen to me if they didn't.'

Draco didn't really know what to say to this, so he just did what felt right. He walked over and sat down next to Potter and offered his hand. Potter took it without thinking. As if it was the most natural thing in the world. Draco looked down at their intertwined fingers and, with a sudden spike of fear shooting through him, hoped desperately that Potter would not stop talking.

'It's been ready to go on the market for a month now, but I can't bring myself to do it.' He squeezed Draco's hand and smiled at him. But Draco noticed that it was a different sort of smile now, a nervous, unsure smile that sought something it could not summon from within. So Draco squeezed back. It seemed to help because Potter went on. 'I spoke with a couple people at the Ministry and asked to take a look at some of the things they've catalogued from the takeover of Malfoy Manor. Ernie Macmillan's got a job in that group now, and he let me into the storeroom and was pretty nice about, er, delisting a few things.' He shot Draco a guilty look and then said quickly, 'I mean, it's nothing Dark or anything. I just thought . . . you should be comfortable.'

'Oh,' Draco said. Now he understood. Potter was finally giving him the boot. But trying to soften the blow by baking him a birthday cake and putting him up in the countryside for a while. He dropped Potter's hand and stood up. 'Right, I see. Listen, I know I've overstayed my welcome, Potter, but I don't think the house-in-the-country thing is really my style, even short-term. If it's alright with you, I'll just collect my things from Grimmauld Place as soon as we get back and then you'll be rid of me. I . . . er . . . I know a few people I can crash with for a while . . . ' Then he tried to remember whether Millicent and Blaise were living in Willesden or Walthamstow, though he had no true intention of renewing those old ties.

It was a moment before Draco realised that Potter was holding him by the shoulders and saying something in his ear. Something that sounded like 'I don't want you to leave'.

He caught his breath and cautiously asked Potter to repeat himself.

'I said, I don't want you to leave.'

'You don't?'

'No,' Potter whispered. 'I like having you around.' Their foreheads were touching, and Draco knew Potter was looking at him very closely.

'You do?'

'Yes. I just wanted to give you somewhere nice to come to. Grimmauld Place is so—'

'Depressing?' Draco offered.

'Yeah.' And Draco felt Potter's mouth brush against his cheek, felt his breath in his ear, felt his face in his hair, felt Potter breathing in as if he was trying to make Draco a part of himself.

Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall onto Potter's shoulder.

They stood like that for a long time, arms around each other. There were things Draco knew would need to be said eventually — he knew nothing could be as easy as Potter was making this seem. But he didn't want to think about that right now.

All he wanted to think about was how good Potter felt in his arms — and how glad he was that Potter's arms were around him because when their lips finally met, Draco felt so dizzy he wondered if anyone had ever passed out from a kiss before; it would be beyond embarrassing if he were the first. But Potter might have felt the same way because they were suddenly on the soft green grass, and Draco was squinting against the afternoon sun, and Potter was kissing his eyes closed and stretching his body out across Draco's, and —

'Ouch!' Draco cried and pushed Potter off him. 'What the f—'

'Oh, bloody hell,' said Potter, the shocked, horrified look draining from his face, only to be quickly replaced with one of embarrassed amusement as he reached into his pocket and tossed something towards Draco.

Draco caught it and opened his hand.

The chess piece Potter had swiped back at Grimmauld Place had apparently not appreciated being so rudely awakened and was wildly brandishing its sword and its curses at them. Draco shook his head in disbelief and threw the piece back at Potter, who perched it on the edge of the table, overlooking their place in the grass.

Afterwards, the knight never was able to play a straight game of chess again and had to be retired, instead, to the countryside.

The End

_Thanks for reading! Please review._


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